Prelude 4: FUBAR
by Ellislash
Summary: Nick's Prelude: How did the survivors get Left 4 Dead in the first place? Coarse language, violence, sexual themes. OC background in "Gone Rogue." I don't own anything Valve does.


It might be helpful to read my origin story, "Gone Rogue," first. This prelude uses that background.

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><p>Staying seemed like the best idea he'd had in a long time. If he played his cards right, everyone else's disaster could be his dirty playground: a whole city abandoned, full of loot just begging to be taken. Nick's hand was good, and he took whatever he damn well pleased.<p>

Cash, electronics, firearms, clothing, and bottles of booze littered the floor. The broad whose name he'd never bothered to learn lay beside him on somebody else's bed. He let his eyes devour her naked form: filthy, stained, and sexy as hell. Nick smirked, remembering last night. He'd have that hickey for weeks; but shit, it had been worth it.

He fingered his favorite pistol, the one he kept by his side no matter what. It had saved his life more times than he could count, and could be a whole lot of fun when put to... _other_ uses. With one hand he dragged the very tip of its muzzle along the curves of the perfect ass before him. With the other he started fingering something else.

The pre-dawn darkness whispered of safety as he let his hand brush his most sensitive of places. He sighed in pleasure and watched his new toy's hair glint gold in the gathering sunrise. She stirred as Nick's gun traced cold patterns on her thigh. He moved closer, ready to claim her body again - but something was wrong. Her skin hadn't been that color yesterday...

Then she woke up.

"_Shit!_" Nick choked, and shot her in the head. His doomsday accomplice had just become a one-night stand.

Sitting up slowly, he took in the sight with a feeling that approached regret. He'd have made that girl Queen of Savannah, empress of the empty streets. Now she lay naked and bloody before him, skin greenish-pale with a bullet in her brainpan. She'd caught the Flu, and that meant his brief reign as king was over. It wouldn't be any fun without a whore around, at least, and what's the point of doing anything if it isn't fun?

_Damn__ shame_, he thought, running his tongue down the warm barrel of his pistol. It still tasted like her, and reminded him he had some... unfinished business.

When his ivory mess was staining the blankets he stood up, chugged a can of Monster, and got dressed. From the heaps of clothing that lay scattered around his hideout he picked a blue linen shirt and a white summer suit. It had been custom-fit for someone a tiny bit larger, but Nick didn't care. The thing felt _right_, somehow. And the jacket had lots of secret pockets.

He packed a briefcase full of the most valuable stuff he'd got, and screwed a silencer on his pistol. With a last check in the mirror, he slicked back his hair and left. CEDA wouldn't dare leave such an important-looking son of a bitch behind.

Since he'd been robbing the city blind for a week, Nick knew his way around. He also knew that the infected ones hated noise, so he did not touch any cars and kept absolutely silent. Without any batshit cannibals on his ass, it was almost a relief to be outside. The mess of his den had been bothering him, and now he longed to feel human again. _First __order __of __business:__ fucking __shower. __Second: __a __goddamn __hot __meal._ He let part of his mind handle those plans, and decide which of his contacts might still be alive - he'd have to unload all his loot when he got back to civilization. The rest of his attention went to scanning the area, old military habits resurfacing. He passed through the streets like a ghost.

Once or twice a wandering nutcase tried to chase him. Nick put them all down like dogs before they could wake any more man-eating freaks. _Freaks __like __my __ex-wife,_ he thought scathingly. He didn't smile.

Two helicopters were visible on top of the hotel, about a mile off. As Nick watched, a third rose from near the freeway and also landed on the roof. He almost did a double-take. _They've__ still __got __news __crews __here? __Are __they __out __of__ their __goddamn __minds?_ He didn't care to remind himself that they were just as sane as he was.

Just a few blocks away from the hotel he heard the noise. It was a roaring, and a growling, and a bunch of other sounds, some of which he'd only ever heard during interrogations. The memory nearly made him wince, and he angled away to give the disturbance a wide berth.

Then he heard the screaming.

It sounded like a woman, and for a moment Nick was tempted to do the hero thing. Swooping in to save the day would guarantee that he'd get laid that night, but he knew better. He hadn't come this far in life by being selfless, and he wasn't about to risk his neck for a bitch too dumb to not get herself killed. _K__eep __moving,_ he thought grimly,_ just keep __moving. __Let _her _deal __with __them._

He hadn't gone far, though, when he noticed that the sound was changing. It was moving - paralleling him, in fact. Nick got a sinking feeling. _She __must __be __breaking __for __the__ hotel.__ Shit._ She was going to lead the bloodthirsty horde right to the evac station, and if his ears weren't lying, she was moving awfully fast. If he didn't pick up the pace, he'd be stuck on the wrong side of a siege when he finally got to the tower.

_Fuck.__ Here __we__ go._ Nick started to jog, pulling a select few items from his briefcase and stashing them in his pockets before dropping the satchel in the street. A flurry of cash caught up in the breeze, and fluttered to the pavement like confetti. He fell into his past, dredged up memories he'd disowned years ago, regressed to a more primal form - and ran.

Last time he'd run like this was way back, when he was still on Uncle Sam's good side. Last time, there'd been a cartel hitman on his ass. Last time, he'd been called by a different name...

Mike Foxtrot's muscles burned, forced back into service after nine years off active duty. His senses went into overdrive, expecting to see hostiles in every shadow. Houses passed in exquisitely detailed blurs. The disturbance was getting closer, so close that a seething mass of half-dead flesh was visible down every side street.

A detached observer in his mind noted that one of the helicopters had taken off. He had to go faster, damnit, they couldn't take him alive, and he sure as fuck didn't want to die here!

_It's __time __to __disappear,_ M.F. growled in Nick's mind. _Go,__ agent, __get __your __sorry __ass __across __the __border __NOW!_ Oaxaca and Savannah blended and fused, hot air and terror filling his lungs. He was gaining.

They were close, so close; he was approaching from the side, but one street too far over. He had to merge with the idiot who'd tipped off the cartel - _Didn't__ I __shoot __her?_ He pushed himself just a bit more, every fiber of his body straining, and managed to cut through a dusty parking lot to emerge barely two feet ahead of...

A kid?

The flashback vanished. Mike Foxtrot let Nick back into his own head, which was actually extremely inconvenient at that point. He would have screamed at the pain in his legs if he'd had the breath to do so. Instead he stumbled, and barely managed to stay upright as he registered the image of a young man, wearing a yellow shirt and blue trucker cap, grinning like a maniac.

The redneck somehow still had breath to scream, but it wasn't in terror. It was pure exhilaration.

"You... are a fucking... idiot..." Nick managed to snarl between breaths. How the hell did he get himself into this mess?

To his eternal befuddlement, the kid _laughed_. There they were, sprinting for their lives, being chased by goddamn _cannibals_, and this dumbass was _laughing!_

"Nice ta meetcha, mister!" _Great.__ He __sounds __like __a __redneck, __too._

They ran at the head of the deadly wave, going full tilt for the hotel door, which to Nick's astonishment was being held open for them by a pair of dark-skinned, clearly non-zombielike people. He leaped up the steps, dashed inside and stopped short, gasping, as the man and woman slammed the door behind him.

A second's worth of oxygen helped him think a little clearer. He'd always been good at reading people; now his eyes told him that the tall bald guy in purple was probably a kid's football coach, and that the slim lady with him was looking very fine indeed. Nick quickly looked her up and down. _For __the __last __one __on __Earth, __she's __not __bad_.

The guy with the girly scream was still all excited. "Well all right, let's git ta them whirlybirds!" he declared in a painfully stereotypical Southern drawl, and turned to the fire stairs. Nick winced at the slang term. _Why__ did __I__ come __south, __again?_

"Helicopters. They are _called_ helicopters," he muttered, but the kid wasn't listening.

Nick and the older guy he'd decided to call "Coach" weren't as fast on their feet as the younger pair, but he was actually okay with that. It gave him an excellent view of the woman's ass for the first few flights. Coach, on the other hand, wasn't in any condition to appreciate the sight. He sweated and panted his way up the steps.

"Who the hell... puts an evac station... up thirty flights a'god-damned stairs?" he complained. Nick couldn't resist taking a crack at the man's weight.

"C'mon, Coach. Maybe the helicopter, maybe it's made of chocolate," he quipped, and realized with chagrin that he was panting pretty hard, too. The mad dash to the hotel had really taken it out of him.

The hick and the chick were far ahead when he heard her yell something; definitely upset, but too indistinct to make out the words. With dread, he felt the building shudder, and decided it would really be a better idea not to wonder why. _Just __get __to__ the __roof. __Just __get __to __the __roof, __and __everything'll __be __fine._ He was mildly surprised to overtake the youngsters a couple of flights later.

"Come on. The evac, it's waiting," he told them, and continued the counterclockwise ascent.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but we gotta move!" he heard the boy say, and noted with relief that the bubbliness seemed to be gone. It had been getting annoying.

The kids lapped him again and made it out onto the roof first. Nick knew something was wrong when they opened the door. It was too quiet.

_Fuck.__ No._

He staggered out to the empty roof and bent double to catch his breath.

"...anyone here?" the kid called into the sky.

"This is not happening... this is not happening..." the broad repeated, holding her head in her hands.

Reality hit Nick like a concussion grenade at oh-three-hundred. He went cold as ice.

"Aren't they supposed to be savin' our asses?" Coach sounded outraged.

Nick raised his head and glared after the choppers. Something in the back of his mind, something tiny, something inconceivably important, snapped.

_I'll__ kill __them,_ he swore. _If__ the__ plague__ doesn't__ get __them__ first, __I __will __hunt __them __down__ and __make __their __children __watch__ as __I __cut __them__ apart._ His eyes glittered with the knowledge of what being left behind really meant, and he smiled.

"Looks like there's been a change of plans."


End file.
